What You Must Think
by Marston Chicklet
Summary: A moment has the power to shatter illusions... Brief interlude to OotP. Oh so very oneshot.


DISCLAIMER: I won't insult you by pretending you don't know the drill…

A/N: A silly piece of random angsty fluff that came to me while I was on holidays… You try driving for eight hours in one day and see what you come up with. Takes place during OotP before Harry arrives at Sirius's house… Found this in with many other stories that I forgot that I had written (I think this is from about two years ago, now). One-shot of happy goodness.

What You Must Think

_Courage is the art of being the only one who knows you're scared to death._

—_Harold Wilson_

She looked down from her perch on the stairwell, staring wide-eyed through the railing as he buried his head in his hands, letting his dark curtain of hair fall down around his eyes, jumping as a hand thudded against the wooden table in some unexpressed fury.

Something told her that she should go, but as she shifted the foot that had fallen asleep without her notice gave way, causing her to tumble against the wall and halfway down the steps with a resounding crash. She cringed and sat up, only to find herself in the shadow of a dark-clad figure that was radiating suppressed rage.

"What did you see?" he demanded, grabbing her by the wrist and hauling her up.

Despite the anger in his eyes, his grip was surprisingly gentle, causing a shiver to run down her spine at the contact.

"A bit," she admitted. To her surprise, his voice was slightly choked with some sort of emotion, enough that she didn't dare lie. "Not very much."

* * *

He felt something like shame at her catching him so exposed. It wasn't something he let show often, although he felt it frequently enough. Thank goodness they didn't know…

"Can I trust you?" he asked, dark eyes boring into her hazel ones, and she nodded, inhaling sharply.

The rhythm of her breathing caught his attention, making his come shorter and faster as well. There was a scent in the air; a scent that he realized was _hers_, a mixture of light flower fragrance and cinnamon.

She nodded her head quickly, her gaze never leaving his. "Of course."

There was a note of defiance in her voice, as if she dared him to contradict her, and a brief wave of something unfamiliar swept over him. His jaw clenched.

"What you must think of me," he commented softly, almost to himself.

Confusion filled her eyes momentarily, and she shook her head gradually, almost hesitating.

"I think no less of you, if that's what you mean."

He swallowed hard, suddenly finding it difficult to look into her eyes and see something so like compassion.

* * *

She hated him. He had been nothing but cruel for as long as she had known him, nothing but an inconsiderate bastard… This was what she tried to tell herself mentally, but seeing him so obviously torn suddenly changed all of that. He was just like everyone else.

Almost without her willing it to, her hand reached up to brush his cheek soothingly. He flinched away at first, but she wasn't deterred. Puzzlement crossed his features, but he quickly relaxed into the contact.

"It's all right," she whispered, afraid that if she spoke she might startle him. "Everything will be all right."

She had the feeling of speaking to a small child who had awoken from a bad dream, yet at the same time she felt like the child. Her hand traveled across his sculpted face, usually so void of expression, and his hand rested on her shoulder, as if comforting her would somehow give him the peace of mind he desired.

For that brief moment, she was given a pathway through his eyes and into his heart. Tears filled her eyes, and he pulled back sharply at the sight of them.

"Don't run," she murmured, almost coaxingly, and to her surprise he didn't.

Studying him through her lashes, she found herself wondering what it would be like to kiss him. This thought was so sudden, so totally unexpected that she froze momentarily, causing him to draw back.

"My apologies, Miss Granger," he said stiffly, turning to go.

She caught him by the arm and drew him back almost mechanically, but it was useless—the moment had been broken and his expression was hard once again. A part of her stirred in anger at the arrogance of it, but most of her emotions were still empathetic enough to stop from lashing out. Her free hand touched the back of his neck on its own accord and she found herself standing on her toes. The last thing she saw before letting their lips brush was his eyes—they had filled with a strange heat that made her wish he would do more than just kiss her.

And, Merlin, what a kiss. She was used to the slobbery messes left by adolescent boys, not this gentle yet passionate yearning conveyed through… Was that his tongue? Midway through, he seemed to come to some sort of realization and jerked away suddenly.

Trying to keep the sting of hurt out of her voice, she whispered. "I'm sorry, sir… I didn't mean to—"

He made no reply, only gave one tiny touch to her cheek with the back of his finger and left the gates to his eyes open for another moment, allowing something like tenderness shine through before sweeping away, looking the same as always.


End file.
